Persistence of Memory
by Christina K
Summary: Martha Jones, Sam and Dean Winchester, and the year that never was. And after. A Doctor Who/Supernatural crossover.
1. July and December and July

**Persistence of Memory**  
by Christina K

**Copyright:** 2008

**Thanks to:** Perri for first-class beta work and enthusiasm, Emily for letting me bibble at her endlessly and much-needed editing, Celli for saying "tell me a stooooory", and Christine, Lizbet, Dee, Tina, Abby and Val for reading along and asking for more.

**Disclaimer:** No Toclafane or demons were harmed in the making of this story. Because I don't own them, Martha, Sam, Dean, or their respective shows (_Doctor Who/Supernatural_). Any temporal confusion you may experience can be cured with a nice long nap.

**Spoilers:** For _Supernatural,_ Season 3 through 3.6. For _Doctor Who,_ through 3.13, "Last of the Time Lords." Everything else, including _Torchwood_ mentions for Season 2, is pure speculation on my part.

**Summary: **_  
_

_"Do you believe her?" Sam's knuckles were nearly white, gripping his notebook._

_Dean didn't look at him. "Doesn't matter if I do, Sammy." He tilted his head back to look up at Orion. "Question is, do you?"_

Martha Jones, Sam and Dean Winchester, and the Year That Never Was. And after.

* * *

_July, 2007:  
_  
They were thirty miles out of Santa Monica when Sam's cell rang. He flipped it open, still reading the grimoire in his lap, and glanced at the display. Blocked. "Hunh." He glanced at Dean in the driver's seat. "We expecting any calls from any paranoid people?" 

"Maybe one of Bobby's contacts about another job?" Dean shrugged, hands tapping along to AC/DC on the wheel. "So answer it already, genius."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Hello? Sam Winchester."

Static, then a woman's voice. English accent; young. Intense. "Sam? Listen to me. You need two things to save Dean from the bargain he made in May."

Sam stiffened, fingers clutching around the phone as if he could reach in and grab the caller. "Who is this?"

"There's a book, in Cambridge, Massachusetts. The Harvard Square Library. _Clavis Salomonis_, in the Greek translation. Say it."

"_Clavis Salomonis_. That's one of the oldest books of demon-summoning, how the hell did you--"

"Your blood. That's part of the key. I wish I could tell you more, but--" Another breath taken, like someone poised to dive, and Sam was about to interrupt again when she abruptly said, "Got to go. Sorry. Good luck. And thanks, Sam. I hope it works."

She hung up, and Sam stared at the phone, stunned speechless.

* * *

** December, 2007 - Baja, Mexico:**

Martha climbed the dunes, wind whipping tiny particles of sand into her face, feeling as if she couldn't walk another step. Ten miles yesterday. Fifteen today. And still far, so far away from the coast. She misjudged a step, and tripped over the only scrub brush for miles, tumbling downward, ass over teakettle, to land at the bottom of the slope. Too tired to sit up, she stared at the lowering sun, tears stinging her eyes. Almost six months of wandering with so many months ahead, and she'd give anything to just rest. To not have to think about the next step, and the one after that, and the one after that.

She got up finally, and started walking again, following the compass in her hand, and the dirt track toward the clouds on the horizon. Her contact had to be here somewhere.

"Think that's her?"

Dean gave Sam a dubious glance. "Dude, there can't be two girls wandering out in the middle of this stretch of desert on their own. Not being missed by the flying freaks, anyway."

"There could be." Sam studied the woman through his binoculars, and muttered, "Anything's possible."

"Yeah, but not likely. Bobby? We got confirmation on the Tick-tock location?" Dean said into his walkie-talkie.

"They're pacing the perimeter of the camp," Bobby said after a moment's check. "You got a clear window of twenty-some minutes, boys. Make it count."

Sam kicked the dune buggy into gear, and Dean hung onto the roll bar as they headed toward the stumbling figure. She turned as they came within shouting range, bracing herself warily, hand clenched around the canteen at her hip.

"Martha Jones?" Sam called over the engine. She nodded once, jaw set. She looked like the thin edge of the same kind of desperation he saw in the camps every day; alive on hope and water and denial. "We're your ride to Baja."

"Password?" She said, not moving. Sam wondered if even half the things they'd heard about her were true. Or if this was worth the trip out. She didn't look like any kind of Amazon assassin, or a militant crusader. Just another survivor, hiding and running.

"Who the hell thinks up this crap?" Dean muttered. He raised his voice. "Captain Jack Flash is a gas gas gas," he called.

"Somebody who never met you," Sam offered, trying to hide a smile.

"Right," the woman said, forcing herself to march toward them. "Thanks. Good timing. I was about ready to bury myself for the night."

"Yeah, you don't wanna be doin' that around here. The Tick-tocks do a regular flyover," Dean said as she swung herself into the seat behind Sam.

"Wouldn't bother me none." She flipped her ponytail back and eyed him coolly.

Dean was eyeing her right back, appreciatively on his part, and this small moment of normalcy was enough to have Sam smothering a smile. "Dean Winchester. And our chauffeur's my brother Sam." Dean handed over their spare goggles to her. "Hang on to your hairclip, we don't wanna get caught out here."

Conversation was put on hold as they sped over the dunes, kicking up sand as they approached the opening of the abandoned mine shaft where they were holed up. Bobby had rigged a garage-door opener onto the thing, and they'd camouflaged it with a bucket of sand. No one walking by (or flying over) would be able to spot it without the tinted goggles giving them a clue.

"Tick-tock, ten o'clock, sixty yards," Dean suddenly yelled over the roar of the buggy, leaning forward to pull the shotgun out of its mount. "Hit it, Sammy!"

Sam poured on speed as they headed for the mine's door, certain they weren't going to make it. But the Sphere just kept going in the other direction, probably being called to patrol the worker's camp. The doors opened up, sand pouring down the sides as they dived down into the darkness, the motor of the dune buggy echoing in the shaft as he slowed the engine to a halt. The entrance door ground down behind them, and he cut the engine once they were a hundred yards in, and took a breath. "Lucky thing we got to you before the Sphere did."

Martha Jones was already swinging herself out of the buggy, glancing up at the lanterns hung along the receding corridor of the mineshaft. "Wasn't luck." She rubbed the back of her wrist across her forehead, then gave them both a sharp nod. "But thanks. Can I get a drink of water and something to eat before I meet with everyone?"

"We can do you better than that, sweetheart." Dean had pulled himself out of the buggy with a hop, and was now leaning on the vehicle, eyebrows going up. "We've got a hot springs piped in down here. You can actually have a bath, if you want it."

The first smile Sam had seen on her broke across her face, and it was dazzling. "Not really?"

"Really." Dean swaggered around the buggy, and offered her an arm. "I'll even scrub your back, if you want. We're a full-service community here."

And that got something too thin to be a laugh, but real nonetheless. "So I'm at a luxury Mexican spa, then. Cheers."

* * *

They hadn't been kidding about the hot springs. Martha hadn't wanted to indulge too much; anything reminiscent of what life had been like Before took her out of the mindset she needed tonight. Or rather, brought her close to tears -- first from relief, then from anger at feeling relief for something as simple as a bath, safety, food that wasn't canned. Which brought her right back into the headspace necessary in order to face the people she had to talk to soon. But she didn't need to ride that merry-go-round again, so, denial it was. 

She'd told the story so many times now. Martha had sat down at one point, and worked out that it was just over once a week so far, on average. Twenty-five times. Twenty-six tonight. She'd told... maybe three thousand people? Maybe five thousand? Ten? So far. It would be more, before she was done. Some meetings of people in the hundreds; a few that were only handful of key people, ones who could pass on the message. Tonight's would be like that. Like a virus, her story would travel up and down the coast, and later there would be larger meetings, larger crowds. A boat down the coast from here, all along and winding through South America, then one to Australia. India from there, probably...

She almost fell asleep in the warm salty bath, trying to plan the next part of her itinerary, and the part beyond that. Europe done. Africa, the hardest parts, the worst corners, done. Asia ahead of her, and Australia.

Then home. And hope that it worked. That he'd still be alive to make it work.

Martha laid back in the water, floating a moment in the concrete basin, tasting sulfur and salt on her tongue, staring at the one bare electric light hovering from the ceiling far above.

"You gonna drown in there?"

She splashed in surprise, ducking under again as she flailed, then surfacing, and peeked her head over the rim of the basin, meeting Dean's eyes. He grinned, and rested his arms on the edge, eyes lazily drifting downward. Thought he was cute, she could tell. The water was cloudy with salt and sand; not much to be seen there. Still. After a week of no one looking at her directly, this was a bit much.

"You always sneak up on women whilst they're bathing?" She splashed at him, and hugged the edge of the basin, slicking water back from her hair. "Surprised you haven't been drowned yet."

Dean smirked, eyebrows waggling wickedly. "You're welcome to try. I get the feeling it might be worth it."

Martha found herself chuckling again for the second time in a day, shaking her head as she clutched the edge of the tub. Push aside the good looks, and there was something very up-front about his flirting, banter for banter's sake. She had a sudden flash of Jack, and stuffed the memory back down where it couldn't hurt her. For now.

"Don't have the energy. Got to be on top of my game for tonight's talk."

"Yeaaah." The teasing on Dean's face fell away to speculation, and he flicked his fingers in the water, studying her. "You got a way to off the psycho? Get the world back to the humans?"

"I know someone who does." She met his gaze steadily, thinking of the Doctor back on the _Valiant_. "But everyone has to do their part."

Dean's eyes narrowed. Martha bore his scrutiny with calm, if not exactly comfort. She'd seen it before, that look. 'Are you scamming us? Are you for real? What's in it for you?' Most of the time, people were familiar with her face from the last broadcast before it all went to pieces, and that got her in the door. After six months, the looks were less threatening than they'd been at the beginning, but more desperate.

"When's it going to happen?" Dean was trying for detached, and not quite making it.

"Not entirely sure. Whenever the Master gets his first launch ready. Still too early to say." She frowned a little at something she saw on his face. Too subtle to be pinned down, but it could've been fear. Not like there wasn't a lot of that to go around.

"It'll work." She reached out, despite the risk of exposure, and put her hand over his. "I swear. If everyone does this, he **will** fall."

He stared at her a long moment, then whispered, "Hope you're right."

A heartbeat later, he was back to the teasing. "So, Scheherazade. Ready to meet your adoring public? I'll hold your bath towel for you."

"Thank you, I can get it myself." And wonder of wonders, she was almost flirting with him. God, it'd been a long time since she'd even felt the urge. She rose a little in the water, barely preserving her modesty, and ordered him sweetly. "Turn around, Mr. Winchester. I've got to get myself decent for my press conference."

* * *

_July, 2007:_

"Why are we here again?" Dean slouched against the Impala, giving his watch an impatient look. "And how long is it gonna take?"

"I need a few more research materials," Sam told him, keeping his head down as he fumbled for his laptop and fake student ID in the car. "For the job in Jersey. Shouldn't take more than two, three hours?"

"Fine. You geek out here. I'm gonna find a pool game. I'll be back for dinner." Dean slid his shades back on his face, and gave a how-you-doin' grin to a couple of passing co-eds. "Probably."

Sam couldn't resist rolling his eyes, but managed to disguise his relief that Dean didn't ask any further questions. "Yeah, good luck with that. I'll call when I'm done, okay?"

"Yup. Yo, ladies? Can you direct me to the nearest pool hall?"

Hurrying into the Harvard Square Library, Sam turned the mystery of the phone call over in his head again.

Bobby had had no idea who the woman might have been. Neither had Ellen. He'd thought for a moment that it was Tamara, because of the accent. Or someone she knew. Bobby had no idea where she was these days, or what she was doing, but discreet inquiries at their last couple contacts had lead to the news that she'd headed for Canada and hung up her knives. Which didn't make it impossible that it was her, just less likely; and Sam was pretty sure he would have recognized her voice. He knew it wasn't Bela, and so he was left with only the lead to check out, and the hope that it would take him to the identity of his informant as well as useful information.

_Clavis Salomonis._ And his blood. Let it work. Let there be a way to save Dean. Let this not be someone jerking him around. Or one of Ruby's compatriots, playing some other game.

"Hi, I'd like access to your Greek collections?" Sam flashed his faked ID, and the phony letter from the Harvard languages department. "Which way do I go?"

The library aide smiled, and chattered, and lead him to the Greek collection, leaving him there with a couple backward glances that had Sam smiling tightly, fingers digging into his dad's journal. Finally, he was alone with the books. He went straight to the newest  
acquisition, the one he'd ascertained had only been placed there in the last week.

Old. The love of books for their own sake overcame him for a moment, and he held the book, loath to open it and be disappointed. In the moment of possession, everything was possible. Dean was saved, the world made sense, everyone he loved was safe.

Taking a breath, Sam put on the gloves he'd brought, then opened the book.

_Clavis Salomonis_. The Key of Solomon. Usually regarded as a compendium of a slew of Middle Ages magic, demon summoning, and curses; probably not connected to King Solomon at all. Still, some of the rituals in it had become part of the mainstream hunter's lore; exorcisms that worked for minor imps, small mischiefs, ghosts in the night. Incomplete, always. There were multiple translations, going back over five hundred years. This version was supposed to be six hundred years old, and more complete than the others.

Quickly, Sam scanned through the first half, regarding curses and demon summonings, noting the changes, the differences from other editions; nothing major. Nothing that would inspire a mysterious phone call.

It was in reading the second half of the book that he found it; the one to do with protections before summoning demons. A ritual that wasn't in any version he'd read about, or researched, or seen.

Slowly, he read through it once. Twice.

Then put his head down on the table, and laughed. Mostly to keep from screaming in victory.

It wasn't certain. He might not be able to pull it off. It was the longest of long shots; a loophole in the law, the equivalent of a codicil in a contract that would allow him to **attempt** to save Dean. But it was more than he'd found in the last month of looking and begging everyone he knew for information.

Sam took the book over to the copier, and leaned against the machine, knees weak, as the light of the scanner moved over the pages. He couldn't let Dean suspect what he'd found. He'd have to pretend to keep looking. He'd have to do it to fool Ruby, too. For the first time he contemplated being free of her interest, with a mix of hope and dread that told him it was already way past time for him to cut the cord with her.

But he had to be sure this still wasn't a trick, or a scam. Somehow he had to track down his benefactor, query her motives, and make sure it wasn't another power-play.

How the hell was he going to find her?


	2. December and July and December

**December 2007:**

Martha looked around the table inside the mine's only small office, and counted heads. Fourteen people. Sam and Dean Winchester, the man who'd organized her contact with the Underground, Bobby Singer, Jo Harvelle, who'd loaned her a change of clothes, and ten others. Hunters, Bobby had explained to her. "Hunting what?" she'd asked.

It wasn't surprising that those who'd regularly stalked the extraordinary had stayed alive during the first Toclafane attacks; even less surprising that they'd literally and figuratively gone underground, and fought against the Master and his cohorts. She wasn't as surprised at his explanation as she would have been six months ago. Despite travels in outer space and along the timestream, despite witches and Shakespeare and the power of words, she would have explained ghosts and werewolves to herself as manifestations of science back then. But that was before she'd wandered into stranger corners of the Earth than she'd ever found outside the TARDIS doors. Science, magic… maybe it was all semantics and higher math.

Which might make this talk a harder sell than it had been before. She was used to tailoring her explanations on the fly now, giving the same basic information, but adapting it to her audience. How many of them thought of the Spheres as monsters, or supernatural beings? How difficult would they find the Doctor's plan to accept?

No way to know but to start.

* * *

Sam and Dean were at the back of the room, standing against the wall, the better to gauge the reaction to the plan that was supposedly going to be proposed. Sam had heard so many wild variations of the content of her talk, he had no expectations at this point. Except that he wanted a clear course of action, a way to strike back at the psycho in his ship in the sky. He had to hope that she hadn't gotten this far around the world spouting a pipe dream, so... 

"Thank you all for coming." Martha Jones met the eyes of each person, and took a breath. "You all know who I am, and why I'm here. My name is Martha Jones. Until six months ago, I was a medical student in London. Now, well. I'm trying to keep a plan alive, one to get rid of the Spheres and the Master. I need your help for it to work. It's a very small thing, but it's important. And I wanted you to know that there's hope."

She paused, waiting for an interruption, but no one in the room was willing to break in just yet. Visibly steeling herself, Martha went on. "The Master is an alien. I know you're used to battling things that are out of the ordinary. He's not from Earth, and neither are the Spheres. He's planning to use our planet as a launching pad for taking on the rest of the galaxy. We need to delay that for as long as possible, in order for the plan to work."

"Tell us something we don't know." Scotty Collins, a big, beefy guy who liked setting dynamite traps for the Tick-tocks, folded his arms, tilting his chair back. "We ain't stupid. Those broadcasts of his made it real clear what he wanted from us, and that he weren't no normal human bein'. Question is, would taking him out stop the goddamn Tick-tocks? Or would they just go on without him?"

Bobby leaned forward, giving Martha a hard look. "No, the question is, how do we stop production on the rockets when everyone's too damn scared to fight? You got an explanation for how most of the population's just rolled over and showed their bellies? 'Cause this isn't just about technology. If it were, we'd've taken out those Spheres by now. But you can hardly get any of those sheep in the prison camps to say 'boo', much less help in sabotage. The most they'll do is get their kids out of the area."

Next to Sam, Dean gave a huff of agreement, and Sam slumped against the wall, remembering the last batch of refugees they'd tried to get out of the camps. Some days the futility of what they were trying to do was more obvious than others.

"The two are connected. Through the Archangel network. That's how he's controlling the population." Martha folded her hands on the table-top. "You've all known about people who were a little out of the ordinary, right? Maybe table-tappers, or spoon-benders. Or in this crowd, I'm guessing some of you have seen real magic powers."

Sam froze, aware of a couple of sneaking glances sent his direction, and Dean trying to watch him without being obvious. Martha must've picked up on it, because she gave him a curious look, and Sam hoped like hell that his expression didn't give anything away.

"The Master's got a kind of telepathy. And he's hooked it into the satellites. Subliminal messages are added to it: don't fight. Obey. Accept the Master." She licked her lips. "'Harold Saxon' got elected because of those subliminals. He's nice, trust him, vote for him..."

"You Brits sayin' he brainwashed you first?" Scotty smirked. "Hell, wish we'd had that excuse for the guy before Winters."

Muted snickering around the table, and Martha gave them a rueful smile. "He wanted to be in a position where he could move from a secure location: the _Valiant_. That's why he wanted to be elected. He would have gone on with his plan even if he'd lost the election, we just made it easy on him." She sighed. "I didn't vote for him, but then, I missed the whole election. I was... elsewhere." Sam had to wonder what kind of 'elsewhere' kept you from missing an entire election campaign, and raised his eyebrows at Dean. Dean shook his head, apparently unwilling to question Martha until she'd said more.

"The plan to defeat him calls for the hijacking of the Archangel network, the hour he decides to launch the rockets." A few people sat up straighter, attention caught. A couple looked dubious. Jo sent Bobby a questioning look, and he chewed on his mustache, listening carefully. "Do you remember the broadcast the day the Master took over? A man who tried to stop him, called the Doctor?"

"Dude who got turned into Rip Van Winkle in two seconds," Dean spoke up. "You can still see him sometimes, sitting in a corner when the psycho makes his damn addresses. What about him?"

Martha nodded at Dean, face sober. "He's the same species as the Master. And he's working his way into the Archangel network right now, as we speak. It isn't an easy thing. The Master had eighteen months to set up the system. But the Doctor's good, and he just needs enough time."

_Hunh_, Sam thought. He folded his arms, considering. Possible? Maybe. Where there was one alien, there might be two. And that guy wasn't dead, when anyone else would already be a smoking corpse. So maybe there was something to this.

"So he's gonna take control of the Tick-tocks, and send 'em the hell home?" Bobby broke in, frowning. "What if he gets killed before then?"

Martha swallowed. "There's a back-up contingency for that, but it won't happen." She looked like she really didn't want to think about it, though, and for the first time, Sam wondered how exactly she knew all this, and what her relationship with the Doctor was. "The Master needs an audience for his victory, and none of us--" She waved a hand around the room. "--are impressive enough. He needs someone who gets what he's doing. And that's the Doctor. Believe me, if he hasn't killed him before this, he's not going to do it until he can rub his triumph in the Doctor's face."

"So, what's our part in it?" Jo asked, lacing her fingers together, eyes steady on Martha's face. "I saw my mother get cut to pieces by those Spheres. I'd like a little payback." Dean shifted next to Sam, and Sam looked away from Jo, unwilling to see her expression.

"Don't know about payback, but the hour-- the instant-- that the rockets launch, or before then, if the Master announces it, and he probably will... I need you all to think one word. Just one. 'Doctor.'" She looked around the room, probably seeing more skepticism, some disgruntlement. Sam was feeling pretty dubious himself. It was too easy. Too simple. Where was the ritual to it? Where would it get any power to work? As soon as he thought the question, Martha answered it.

"He needs the mental energy, the focus, to break the Master's hold on the network. Once the Doctor's done that, we can get to the machine that's keeping the Toclafane here, and destroy it. Maybe even make it so none of this happened."

"Okay, now you're just shining us on." Cathy Polanski got up, face twisting in anger. "What the hell are you trying to sell, little girl?"

"I'm not selling anything." Martha put her palms up on the table, keeping her eyes on Cathy's face, voice even with conviction. "I've seen things. Incredible things. Time travel, space travel. You have too, over the last six months. I'm telling you, we can fix this. You just have to say it. You don't even have to believe it. It'll help if you do, if you really concentrate, push at the boundaries in your mind. But if you just think one word, the Doctor and the satellites will do the rest."

Silence for a moment.

"Prove it." Someone had been bound to say it, in this bunch. Fighters and doubters, with the strength of mind that didn't accept hope easily. Not without something solid to hang onto.

"I can't prove what hasn't happened yet." Martha sat back, then held out one wrist. "But maybe I can show you a little trick?"

She pushed a button on her watch, and disappeared. Not even a puff of smoke, or a sound. Just gone.

_Holy crap!_

"Where the heck'd she go?" Bobby was on his feet, eyes wide as he scanned the room, and everyone else was half a second behind him.

"It's a trick," Cathy said, but her voice sounded miles more uncertain than it had three minutes before.

"Some trick," Jo said, checking under the table, then laughing a little nervously. "Dudes, if she has that, maybe she can get close enough to the guy to take him out, if this plan doesn't work..."

Sam could see Dean's eyes narrow, and then he nodded. That was probably the 'back-up' plan. It wouldn't fix the Tick-tocks, but at least without a leader and the subliminal messages, they'd have a shot. The implications were pretty obvious. But if that wasn't her first plan, hopefully the one she'd just proposed would actually work.

"She'd gotta be around here somewhere," Scotty grumbled, looking freaked out as he stomped out of the room. "I'm checkin' down the shaft, you guys check topside."

Sam walked out of the room with Dean behind him, and said quietly, "If she can do that..."

"Yeah. I got that." Dean rubbed at one eyebrow, casting a look behind them, then smirking. "Gotta be handy for tracking down terrorist cells and recruiting them, too. Now we know how she gets away from the Spheres."

"So it could work. In theory."

"Everything works in theory, Sam." Dean cocked an eyebrow at him. "You think you could take over the world if we gave you a satellite network? Saving Sam's Spheres?"

Sam shot him a dirty look, even though the comparison had occurred to him too, for reasons he was not about to get into with his brother. "Shut up, jerk."

Dean chuckled under his breath, and then they heard Jo shout behind them. "Guys! She's back!" They turned back down the shaft and hurried back to the meeting room in time to hear Jo ask, "Where did you go?"

Martha gave all three of them a wicked smile, and Sam found himself smiling involuntarily back. "Let's wait 'til the others get back. Okay?"

It took another ten minutes for all of their group to return, murmuring and confused, but less belligerent than they had been. Martha held out her wrist. "Meet my handy time vortex manipulator. I didn't go anywhere, I went anywhen. Six minutes forward in time." She dropped it back on the table. "I don't use it much, 'cause I don't know how long the battery's got. And I need it for emergencies, in case I get in a jam." She looked around at the fourteen people in the room, and set her jaw.

"I can't stop until everyone's heard this message. Until every single person left on the planet will be concentrating at the same time, on the same thought. When that's done, then I can go back, and let the Doctor know we're ready."

She bit her lip, and the one thing Sam did not doubt in that moment was her sincerity. Her sanity, maybe, but not what she was trying to do. "The Doctor's been around a long time on this planet. Fighting things like the Master, and no one's ever noticed. A hundred times he's saved the world. This is just the one time we all get to hear about. _Please._ He needs you. He needs everyone. Say you'll give him this chance to do it one more time."

* * *

_July 2007:_

"It should work," Bobby allowed, reading the photocopy that Sam had sent to him, then peering at Sam over his reading glasses. "The trick'll be not to let on to Dean what you're up to. And getting it done in time." He blew out a slow breath. "And then doing whatever you have to, once it kicks in."

"It's the best shot I've found so far. And it isn't without precedent." Sam folded his arms, checking the entrance to the restaurant for his brother. Dean could come back at any minute after interviewing the girlfriend of the last dead guy but one.

"No, you're solid there. And the ritual should work." Bobby squinted. "I just wonder if it ain't a trap. Mysterious phone call. Whole lotta effort from you put into this, instead of something else. Could be someone's playing you for a fool."

"I know. I know." Sam pushed his hair out of his face, and stared down at the papers. "But if it isn't..."

"How likely is that, though? When did our side ever get a break?" Bobby raised his eyebrows. "If you want to go this route, you know you've got my help. But think long and hard about whether you want to do it, Sam."

The tinkling of the bell over the door had Sam reaching for the papers, then carefully, casually putting them away as Dean walked over to the table and slid into the booth.

"Bobby! Got a lead for us?"

"As a matter of fact, I do..." Bobby launched into the prepared research that Sam had fed him as an excuse to get him to the diner, and Sam pretended to listen. The case so far looked like a vengeful siren, but had earmarks of another creature too; time to get his head back in the game.

There had to be a way to trace that phone call, though. Some way to find out the motivations of the person who'd called. Maybe Missouri would have something, if he gave her a call. Although one message wasn't a lot to go on, even for Missouri. Still. There had to be something. So far, Dean had no idea what he was up to, but if he was going to commit to the ritual described in the _Clavis Salomonis_, he needed to make up his mind, and soon.

_Good luck. And thanks. _Who had he done a favor for, that would try to pay him back in something as important as Dean's soul?

* * *

**December 2007:**

The meeting had broken up, and Martha Jones had pleaded exhaustion after three hours of questioning, and gone back to share Jo's bunk in one of the side-shafts. Some of the hunters were still in the office, chewing over the implications of all she'd said and done, and trying to decide how this changed their approach to sabotaging the Master's plans.

Sam had headed topside, out one of the exit shafts, needing the air.

_Maybe a way to make it so it all didn't happen. _That's what she'd said. Paradox machine; the Tick-tocks were here through messing with time, and once that was reversed, well... they'd be back to the day of the assassination and invasion. Maybe. Possibly. She couldn't guarantee it; hadn't had time to confirm it, in the tragedy that had torn apart the world last June. But it was a chance. A possibility.

Dean might not be doomed.

"Thought I'd find you here." Sam didn't turn around at Dean's voice, didn't move from his position sitting in the sand, staring at the stars. A scratching, then the hiss of a lit match, and the smell of Marlboros drifted over to him. Dean had to be pretty shook up to dig into his precious stash of nicotine tonight. Sam looked down at the notebook in his hands, fingers tightening on it. All of his notes, all of his plans to save Dean. He'd been so sure he could do it, that a year would be long enough.

Then less than a month into that year the world exploded, and all the tools, weapons, resources, everything they had went to just getting through the next day, the next week. But he hadn't forgotten. He still counted down every day they had left.

"Do you believe her?" Sam's knuckles were nearly white, gripping his notebook. He risked a look at Dean, dreading the answer as soon as he asked the question.

Dean didn't look at him. "Doesn't matter if I do, Sammy." He tilted his head back to look up at Orion. "Question is, do you?"

Sam looked back up at the stars, and felt his throat try to close up. After a minute, he whispered, "I want to. Which doesn't make it true."

"Yeah." Dean ambled over to where Sam was sitting, and bent down to join him in the sand. "I don't think she's lying."

"No. Me neither. She could be wrong, though. Or the Doctor could get himself killed before she gets back to England." Sam kept his eyes on the stars. "But if she's right..."

He could feel Dean shrug, his shoulder against Sam's, and the resignation in his voice cut at something inside of him. "Might not change anything, you know. This could work, we could get a do-over, and I'm still gonna have to pay my accounts. I can't help you with it. I promised."

"I know. But even if there's half a chance-- I mean, why not do it? What's it going to cost us?" Sam asked, anger edging the words. "Nothing. A little hope. A little belief at the right time. We can still slow down the rocket production, try to find ways to disable the Spheres. Why not go along with her plan?"

"Maybe the Doctor will be in charge if it works." Dean's voice was flat, considering. "Maybe we'll trade one dictator for another."

"Martha wouldn't be stumping for a dictator. You saw her, Dean. She's a good person. She's risking her life for this, her freedom, her family..." Sam looked away. "She believes in what she's saying."

"Doesn't make it true," Dean said, echoing Sam's earlier words. "Maybe the psycho took Rip Van Winkle out because he was a rival, not someone who would stop him. Maybe the Doctor has her snowed. It's pretty obvious she worships the guy."

"Maybe. But I doubt it." Sam looked away from the stars, voice softening. "What are you going to do?"

"Same thing as always. Fight the bad guys." Dean took another drag on his cigarette. "I won't be here for the endgame. So it's up to you." His voice dropped. "Just be careful. I never thought… I didn't expect the world to be like this. When I left."

"I know."

When Sam had first realized how screwed they were, how much of the world was gone, he and Dean had fought. There'd been things they said that still showed up in his nightmares. Dean had even had a few kamikaze leanings for a while; he would've taken the whole fleet with him in a suicide run just to leave Sam intact. But there hadn't been any guarantees, any way to be sure the craziest of his plans would have worked, so he'd given up on those ideas, and just concentrated on keeping them both alive for as long as possible.

The irony of Sam finding a possible ritual that could have given them a shot at saving Dean long after they could implement it, still haunted him. An article in an abandoned library in Florida, and a side-trip to Cambridge, and there it was. A way out.

One which he couldn't build or enact, not with the Spheres taking out anyone building anything the Master didn't personally approve. Not without the technology and time to make it work. Maybe it never would have worked, but at least there would have been a chance.

He hated the Master for damning Dean as much as he did for what he'd done to the rest of the Earth.

Trust, or distrust. Hope, or deny hope. Neither would have much of an effect on whether Sam lived or died. Some effect on his sanity levels, possibly. Getting through the day was hard enough sometimes, without adding in disappointment down the line. But still, true or false, he could spread the word, go along with the plan, and not expect to get anything from it. His brother would still be dead if it didn't work. And Dean would still have to fulfill his deal, would have to go through this whole year over again, even if it did.

Except... Sam took a breath, getting another idea. He'd have to talk to Martha. But maybe, maybe...

God. It'd been so long since he had something to hope for.

"We'll pass it along. All the cells along the coast, all the people in the camps." He looked at Dean. "And if we're wrong, I'll buy you a drink when I see you again."

"Sammy..."

"Shut up. Deal?"

Dean sighed, and tossed his cigarette away, the sparks flying out to fall down the dune, briefly illuminating the drop below them. "Deal. If you show up in Hell, I'm buying you a drink. Right after I kick your ass."


	3. July, December, August, December

_July, 2007:_

"Don't go looking for her," Missouri cautioned Sam over the phone. "Don't go looking for a way to find her, neither. She found you. If she needs to, she'll find you again."

"I just want to know how she knew about this," Sam protested, pacing out the edge of the 7-11 parking lot. "I have to know if the informant is on our side, Missouri. I can't take this on faith. It's too important."

"I tried looking for you. But whoever, or whatever's behind this… You don't want to know about it." As ever, Missouri's voice got steely when challenged. "You can't unknow what you'll find out if you go looking. And it won't make a difference. Either the ritual is real, or it isn't. The source doesn't matter."

"What do you mean, I don't want to know? Come _on_, Missouri. I'm not some green kid. You can't protect me. I'm way too old for that and I know too much already." He grimaced, shielding his eyes against the glare of the sunlight off the asphalt of the parking lot.

"I'm saying that this whole chance might be compromised if you go looking, Sam. 'Cause something might look back at you." Her sigh traveled down the phone wires like a finger down his spine. "Someone broke a rule for you. For good or bad. That's all I'm getting, no matter how hard I look. And that the results are none too solid. But if that gets noticed, the whole thing disappears. Do you understand?"

"I'm not sure." He frowned, stopping at the edge of the road. "Are you saying…what? It won't count? The ritual won't work, if I draw attention to this? Or I'll forget it, and the book will disappear somehow?"

"Something like that," Missouri confirmed. "Wish I could tell you more, hon. But I know better than to poke at soap bubbles. They just pop." She shook her head. "Dean hasn't caught on?"

"Not yet. He still thinks I'm looking. I had another fight with him about this yesterday, and he didn't act like he had a clue." Sam turned to look back toward the convenience store, and saw Dean leaving it, arms full of junk food as he headed toward the car. "Okay. I'll let it go. For now. But if you hear something, if you see something, and it won't mess this up--"

"I'll be calling," Missouri confirmed. "You keep that brother of yours out of any more trouble, you hear?"

"Like that's ever easy." Sam smiled as he walked to the car, though. "Take care of yourself, Missouri."

* * *

**December, 2007:**

"Miss Jones? Can I speak with you? Privately."

It was the taller, much less flirty Winchester, Sam. Martha resigned herself to one of Those Conversations, and said, "Certainly. Lead the way."

Those Conversations were inevitable when you had a bunch of skeptical people together. The scared ones living on the fringes, just getting by, they grabbed onto her plan like a life preserver in a hurricane. The ones who were fighting back, and thought they had a better idea, well... It wasn't even that some of them didn't have good ideas. But if Martha were to enact every single one of the plans other people had come up with, she'd need at least fifteen copies of herself to send back to the _Valiant._ Just impossible.

This was her plan: walking and teleporting and traveling the world to spread the message. She could only do what she was qualified for. She wasn't a hitwoman, a soldier, or an aeronautics engineer. If other people beat her to defeating the Master, so much the better. But that was their lookout. She wished it was time to leave already, that the boat to Panama had already arrived. No such luck.

The least she could do, though, was repay them with the courtesy of listening. Maybe pass along a message down the line to someone else who could make a different plan work better. That's all she ever committed to during these chats.

So she followed Sam Winchester down a corridor, and up a rickety staircase leading to a metal landing the size of a very small room, one which he and his brother must have appropriated as their own. Two sleeping bags were rolled up and shoved against the edge of the platform, and other small essentials were arranged with military precision around the edge. By contrast, one corner was a mess of papers, photographs, and binders. A lantern hung above them, and Sam moved over to light the oil wick, then carefully replace the shield, hanging it from a hook on the wall of the shaft just over his head.

"What d'you want to talk about?" Martha asked, leaning back against the railing, trying not to feel defensive. It got old, this. But it was better to agree to listen and avoid alienating anyone who could help.

Now that they were alone, Sam didn't seem to want to start. He leaned against the railing across from Martha, face shadowed by the light from the lantern. He couldn't meet her eyes, and kept glancing downward to the corridor below them. Sound echoed strangely in the shaft, and she could hear Dean's voice talking to someone in the distance, but couldn't make out the words.

"You said," Sam said abruptly, one hand fidgeting with the corner of his jacket, "that there was a possibility that this year would be erased. Because of the paradox machine. No guarantees, but it might happen. If it does, won't everything start over again?" He jerked his gaze up to hers finally, shoulders tense. "If we get a re-set button, what's to stop the Master from trying this again?"

"The device he adapted into a paradox machine won't be easily changed to do this again. Once we break the modifications, the Toclafane will be gone. And he gets arrested for murdering the President of the United States on live television, if he's not shot while trying to escape." Martha met his eyes with all the reassurance she could give him. "After that, he's the Doctor's problem."

"Won't we all forget, though? All this--" He swept his hand in front of him in a violent curve, and Martha was suddenly aware of his height, the muscle lying underneath the slouch. "All the death, all the devastation. Does that just go away?"

"Maybe?" Martha shrugged helplessly. "I hope so. If it doesn't, we have to rebuild the world from scratch. But if it does... well. Isn't that the best thing?"

She'd learned so much in the last year. Some of it she'd give anything not to know. But she wasn't sure she meant it, that she wanted to lose it all. She couldn't think about that, though, because it was out of her hands. Saving the world came first. Saving her sanity and memory, and everyone else's, came second.

"Is there even a chance that you'll remember?" Sam asked, looking away again, voice tight with intensity. "Or anyone will? Your friend the Doctor, will he remember, if all of this gets undone?"

"I don't know. Maybe." Martha frowned. "I'd guess yes, but there's no way to know before-hand. Why do you ask?" Sam's jaw set; whatever was bothering him seemed to be only slightly less important to him than the defeat of the Toclafane and the Master. "Sam?"

"Dean's going to be dead in five months." Sam closed his eyes for a second, then opened them to watch her reaction. "Whether we win or not."

"I'm sorry." Martha winced, feeling the huge inadequacy of the words. Wondered again where Leo was, and if he was all right. Couldn't bear to think of the rest of her family, not in public, not where anyone could see. "So sorry."

Sam nodded, crossing his arms and hugging himself. "The thing is, if anyone remembers this, there might be a way to save him. I know one person's life doesn't mean much compared to the whole world, but--" He stopped, swallowing hard. "He's my brother. It's my fault. And it's more than his life, it's his soul."

"How d'you mean, his soul?" Martha shivered, and stuck her hands under her armpits, feeling the chill of the passageway more sharply as Sam spoke. "And how can it be your fault he's going to die?" She'd thought he'd meant cancer, or AIDS; something un-treatable in the post-_Valiant_ Earth, even if Dean was without symptoms now. But the grimness of Sam's expression went beyond thoughts of illness and slow death.

"I got killed seven months ago." Sam's eyes were fixed on her with unnerving seriousness, maybe waiting for her to object. Martha stayed silent, waiting. "Knifed in the gut. I was dead for more than half a day, and then Dean made a deal with a demon." He pushed a hand through his hair, jaw clenching. "His soul for my life. Payable in one year. The debt comes due at the end of May. Then they come for him, and he goes to Hell." His hands tightened into fists again; wanting to punch something, Martha guessed, feeling sick. "Unless someone stops it."

"I don't-- I wouldn't even know what to do, even if it all worked, and we could reverse time---"

"I wouldn't expect you to," Sam broke in, leaning forward. "I already know what I'd need to do to make it work. I just can't **do** it now, when we're stuck running and hiding every minute of the day. But if I had a do-over, and a year to fix it--" He spread his hands, then let them drop. "You've got family. You know what it's like." He took a breath. "Please. If you remember, can you just… call me? Or send me a letter, let me know what I'll tell you about the ritual, so I can figure it out? If this year starts over, maybe I'd have the time, but never find the clues to solve the problem before the deadline. I know you've got a lot to think about, a lot to do, but..."

"Hell. The real Hell." Martha stared at him, rattled to find there were still some limits to her imagination. "You really believe that something would take Dean off to fire and brimstone and all that."

"It happened to my dad." Sam turned away, fiddling with the lamp to hide whatever expression was on his face. "He made a deal to save Dean's life. He ended up there a year, and then a gate to Hell was opened, and all these demons escaped. And so did Dad. We got to say good-bye..." He leaned on the railing, his back to her. "I just want the same shot at saving Dean."

Martha's first instinct was to say 'of course'. Because it wouldn't cost her anything, because whether it was true or not, Sam believed it, because she still didn't know if her own brother was dead or alive. She opened her mouth to agree, then stopped, remembering the Doctor, the first day they met.

_Crossing into established events is strictly forbidden. Except for cheap tricks_.

"Hang on. It might..." It might be wrong. It might mess up the timeline. It might undo all the good that fixing the Master and the paradox would create.

Martha looked at Sam's face, seeing a different desperation from the kind she was used to, but desperation all the same. Worse, even. Life was one thing. Eternal life was entirely different. She didn't know what she believed any more, but she wasn't going to second-guess anyone else's certainties while her own were so tenuous.

She'd just have to be careful. Figure out what she could do, and exactly what she could say. And maybe that wouldn't be much, but… no reason to tell him that.

"Might what?" Sam was studying her with hope just beginning to start in his eyes.

Martha shook her head. "Nothing." She looked up at Sam. "'Course I will. July, 2007. Day after this whole mess started. I'll be giving you a call. You just tell me what to say before I go, and I'll pass it on."

"Thanks," Sam whispered. "Miss Jones-- Martha, just... thanks." He leaned against the railing, almost swaying with sudden relief. "We're going to spread the word. Push it for all we're worth." He paused, looking down on her, dimples showing around the edges of his mouth. "I'll believe in you, even if I can't believe in this Doctor guy."

"He's worth believing in, really he is." Martha smiled back up at him. "Keeps me going, knowing that."

"Are you and he...?" Sam quirked an eyebrow, and Martha laughed before she could stop herself, then shrugged, putting up her usual front.

"Nah. We're not like that. Friends. Best friends." She could hear Dean's voice more clearly now, telling Jo to be careful on patrol; Jo's response was only a blur of amusement from behind a wall. "I miss him."

She could ignore how much she wanted her Mum and Dad most of the time, and how scared she was for Tish; she never talked about them. But every time she gave her speech, she had to think of the Doctor, trapped in that old man's body, stuck with the Master tormenting him for fun, and wonder if this was the day the Master got bored, and finally ended the game.

"I'd imagine. You've been doing this for months." Sam's voice was gentle, and Martha bit her lip as she looked away. No tears. No breaking down. "The boat you're catching tomorrow. Where's it headed?"

"Panama. Then across the Suez, to Venezuela. Cross the continent, get picked up in Chile when I double-back." She sighed, then tilted her head. "Hell of a way to see the world. Anything I should look out for down there?"

"Outside my expertise," Sam said, studying her face. Martha had to wonder what he saw. Probably not the real her any more; some mix of the stories and reality, if she was lucky. "You might run into La Llorona."

"La Llorona. Who's that, then?"

"The weeping woman." Sam's voice took on just a hint of lecturing tone, as if he'd told this story before. "She was a poor woman who killed her children when her husband, or lover, abandoned them. To save them from a life of poverty or for revenge, stories vary. And now she wanders the world, looking for them, because she can't get into Heaven without them." He smiled a little. "Kind of like Demeter, looking for Persephone." Another hint of dimples. "Or Martha Jones, trying to save the world. You're starting to turn into a myth, you know."

"I'll be happy not to be known at all if the world's still here when I'm done. Especially if the last year just... disappears."

Footsteps down below, and Martha looked over the railing to see Dean. "Sammy! Quit bogarting the hot chick! We got dinner. Bring her down so we have someone to look at who doesn't have a ZZ Top beard."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam said as Martha snickered again, and headed for the stairs.

* * *

_August, 2007:_

"This is your fault!"

"My fault? My fault?! You psychotic klepto, you're the one that tripped the switch!"

Sam rolled his eyes and jerked his head, trying to keep the pouring rain out of his eyes as he kept pushing with the crowbar at the door of the crypt.

"You're the one who didn't keep the door open!"

"You're the one who just haaad to take that one last thing, didn't you? Didn't you!"

Briefly, Sam thought of how nice it would be, locked in a dark crypt with either Dean or Bela, instead of out in the rain trying to get a 200-year-old concrete block to move back into position.

Yeah, he was still better off out here, even if he couldn't feel his toes or fingers now.

"Freak!"

"Bitch!"

"Proud of it!"

"Yeah, well… Your mother!"

"Don't you dare bring my mother into this! I'll bring **your** mother into this!"

"Oh, don't even start with that…"

As entertaining as a mutual double homicide would've been at that moment, Sam was still glad to feel the door finally give, just a little. "Guys?"

"—I am taking a shower after this, just to cleanse myself of the effluvia of near-contact with your breath!"

"Nice, princess. You weren't saying that when you were using me as a decoy two months ago."

"I never--"

"**Guys**!" Sam had just about had all he could take, and thankfully, so had the crypt door. The edge crumbled and finally gave way, creaking open with one last blow to the crowbar. "You're clear! Come on!"

"About bloody time," Bela said, stomping by him with a shove to the mid-section. "Why do I ever work with you amateurs?"

"Amateurs? Hey, you wouldn't have anything to show for this mess if it wasn't for us!" Dean was stomping right after her, still yelling.

"You're welcome," Sam muttered under his breath, dropping the crowbar in the mud. He glared up at the sky in a why-me? moment, then turned to follow them. One of the small bags of stolen loot buried in the crypt by a rogue voodoo practitioner had fallen out of either Dean or Bela's clutches, and Sam stooped to pick it up, checking the contents briefly. Mostly ivory charms, a few jet stones, and—

Oh, he couldn't get this lucky. Could he?

An amethyst scrying stone, one he recognized from one of Bobby's intermittent lectures. Bela had said that nothing like that was in this haul, but then, Bela lied when she breathed. Without even thinking about it, Sam shoved the amethyst into his pocket, and hurried to catch up to his brother and Bela, his heart pounding. A stone like this could help you find lost things. Lost keys, lost money, lost friends…? Maybe. It was a stretch, because technically, nothing was lost. Or misplaced. Or stolen. But he did need to find the informant, and ask her what was up, so...

"Here." He lobbed the bag into Bela's arms, avoiding looking at Dean. "One of you dropped this."

"Did your brother get all of the family manners?" Bela sniped to Dean, not even looking at Sam. "As well as the height?"

"Sam, think we can shove her back in that crypt with the rest of the zombie queens?"

* * *

"I can not believe that bitch," Dean came back into their hotel room from the shower, still fuming. "Calls _us_ desecration specialists and walks away with a century's worth of magic objects like she was shopping at Wal-Mart." 

Sam had taken out the amethyst to study it while Dean got cleaned up, contemplating what he was going to do next. The difficult part was that he had no idea how the crystal worked. Another puzzle to figure out. Every time he got a little close to a sure answer in this mess, another riddle popped up. But this one shouldn't set off any alarms with anyone who was interested in them. He quickly stuck the crystal back in the pocket of his jeans, and leaned back on the headboard of his bed, arms crossed. "What really happened while you two were stuck in the crypt together? You were real quiet there for a while, then you started yelling."

"Nothing!"

Sam stared at Dean like he was trying to claim he was Santa Claus.

"Don't give me that look! I sure as hell didn't-- and anyway, I wouldn't, 'cause she spikes the crazy-bitch-meter like radioactive waste. No matter how much--" Dean finished dressing, and finally seemed to hear what he was saying, then wrapped his towel around his hands, yanking it in two directions at once as he growled.

"Yeaaaah," Sam drawled. "I could tell."

"Shut up, bitch."

Hiding his smirk, Sam pulled out his laptop and started a search on scrying crystals. "She said you were cute, you know."

"Hey, I am way more than cute."

"Mmm."

"Christ." Dean yanked on his jacket, then picked up Sam's and threw it at him. "Come on, I need a drink. You can geek out in the car tomorrow."

"I really need to..." Not give Dean anything to worry about. Resigned, Sam pulled on his jacket and followed his brother out the door. "Right. Later."

They found a poker game that went until well past midnight, and Dean's mood improved proportionately. Enough that he let Sam sleep in the car the next morning, the music low enough to lull him into half-sleep.

_"Sam! Get down!"_

_Sam dove off the pier after Dean, ducking under the water as the spheres zoomed overhead. The screams from above drifted down to them, along with strains of "Voodoo Child", and the whir of spinning blades. And giggling. High-pitched, metallic, excited giggling._

_He surfaced next to Dean, shaking, and clung onto one of the supports for the pier. "What the hell are those things?"_

_"Dunno." Dean was gasping for breath, and the whites of his eyes were visible even in the dark under the boardwalk. "I mean, dude, what the fuck, they killed the President, and now--"_

_"Down!" Sam hissed, and they both dove again, bubbles rising above their heads as they hid from the maniacally attacking spheres. Toclafane. Aliens._

_Monsters._

_By the time the spheres left, there were bodies in the water. Sam staggered to the beach, and tried not to throw up as the tide tossed the remains of a woman-- he thought it was a woman-- wearing a yellow shirt up onto the sand._

_Dean choked at the sight, then straightened, looking down the strand. "Right. They're gone. For now." He looked back at Sam, expression wild. Fury and fear and disbelief. "Sam? You okay?"_

_Sam closed his eyes, then opened them and stared at the incoming waves.  
_

_"Sam?"_

"Sam?"

"Gah!" Sam shuddered awake, one hand going to the Impala's car door, the other slamming into the roof. "Christ."

"You okay?" Dean was staring at him, and Sam wondered what kind of noises he'd been making in his sleep.

Missouri had warned him. He should've listened, probably. "Yeah. Yeah." He closed his eyes, then opened them. No flying spheres. No blood coming in on a night tide.

"What, was it a premonition?"

Sam stared out the windshield, and shook his head, licking his lips. "No. Not the future." He took a breath, and let it out. More like a memory. "Just a dream." He laughed, but couldn't look at Dean. "Just like anyone else." He stuck his hand in his pocket, feeling the crystal digging into his palm, and wondered. "Dude, the day the President got assassinated..."

"Yeah?" Dean was still watching Sam carefully, waiting for his brother to manifest some new and crazy weirdness, probably.

"We were at Santa Monica pier, right?"

Yup, he'd just confirmed Dean's belief that he was nuts. "Yes," Dean drew out the word like Sam was brain-damaged. "The pier, near the carousel, watching the whole thing on that big-screen." He stared at Sam a moment, waiting, but Sam stayed silent. Dean shook his head, looking back at the road. "Right. Let me know when you're back on planet Earth, Sammy. Aliens aren't our problem, remember?"

"Yeah." Sam scrubbed at his face, feeling his heart finally start to slow. "I remember."

* * *

**December, 2007:**

"Ready?" Dean asked, spinning the keys of the dune-buggy around his fingers.

"Set," Martha agreed, hopping into the shotgun seat.

Sam slammed open the cargo door hiding the entrance. "Go!"

Dean turned the keys and the dune-buggy zipped out of the shaft, up into sunlight, temporarily blinding Martha as they headed toward the rapidly approaching sunset. Fifteen miles to the coast, where the boat would be waiting for her. Fifteen miles, thirty minutes, and who knew what in between.

The first explosion behind them-- Sam and the others setting off dynamite to draw the spheres away from them-- echoed over the dunes, and Dean chuckled, turning the buggy sharply as they careened down the hills. Another sounded from the opposite direction, and Martha chanced a look over her shoulder, seeing the Spheres buzzing toward a blazing fire.

"You sure this will work?" she shouted over the screaming engine.

"Trust me, they're scary with the knives, but damn stupid. They'll get sidetracked by the fires and the sand, and then they'll give up when they can't find anything," Dean yelled back, swerving down onto a dirt track. From here, Martha could finally see the beach, and sun descending into the waves. And the ship that had come to pick her up, the _Luna_. "We'll get you where you need to go. Stop worrying."

She'd been more worried about the people who were risking their lives for her, but the mission was important too. "Don't want anyone getting killed."

"Way too late for that, sweetheart." Dean slowed the buggy down as they hit a flat plane of beach, then let it roll to a stop as they approached the area near where the ship was anchored. He stood up in the dune buggy, and flashed the mirror he had with him in the pre-arranged code. Three flashes back, and Martha got out of the buggy.

"Looks like this is my stop." She smiled up at him, and held out her hand. "Thanks, Dean Winchester. Wish me luck."

Instead of shaking her hand, he kissed it, with smoothness that would do Jack Harkness proud. "Hey, you don't need it, right? You're Martha Jones."

She laughed, muttering, "Unbelievable," under her breath, then turned to wade into the water to meet the rowboat that they were sending for her.

"Hey, Martha?"

She turned around and looked back at Dean, who was squinting into the sun. "Yeah?"

"Forget what Sam told you."

She froze in the water, waves lapping around her ankles. "What?"

His eyes were still on the rowboat, and his tone of voice was casual. But his posture, one arm hugging the top roll-bar, foot braced on the frame of the buggy, was anything but relaxed. "I know he talked to you. About the deal. Let it go. You got enough on your plate."

She stared at him, mouth working, hearing the oars hitting the water behind her. "Why? You can't be serious. Why wouldn't you want any help?"

Dean rolled his eyes, then finally looked at her, jaw set. "I did what I did. I don't regret it." He frowned. "You gotta see things through, you know? And I don't want Sam to pay for it." He slid down back into the driver's seat of the dune-buggy, jerking his chin toward the boat approaching behind her. "Save the damn world for my brother. That's all you gotta do."

Martha stood there, not responding to the person saying, "Miss Jones? Are you ready to go?" as Dean drove off up the dunes, feeling like she couldn't catch her breath.

Bastard. He couldn't have expected her to -- he **did** expect her to just...

_Right, Sam. Saving your brother. So you can wring his bloody neck_.


	4. September, Cardiff, September, Budapest

_September, 2007:_

Ditching Dean was getting more difficult, Sam found, to the point where he'd had to enlist more than Bobby's help in completing the project. Ellen was in on it now too. Sam suspected that at some point, he was going to have to come clean that he had a plan to Dean without telling him what it was, but not yet. Not just yet.

"Where's your brother?" Ellen asked, watching Sam carefully wrap up the latest portion of stamped clay and place it in the back of her trunk. "He still doesn't have any idea about this?"

"Off with a girl he met in the bar last night." Sam slammed the lid of the trunk then leaned against it, massaging his arm before turning around. "He won't talk about the deal, so no. I'm not telling him anything until he cops to wanting out of it."

"And if he never does?" Ellen said, raising her eyebrows.

"Then I don't have to tell him anything. Win-win."

Ellen muttered something under her breath about boys and jackasses, and put her sunglasses back on her face. "Bobby said to tell you he's got the site, but he wants to know--"

"Good morning, Sam."

Ellen stopped talking as Sam stiffened, teeth clenching for a moment. He didn't turn around. "Hey, Ruby." He stood up more carefully, and jerked his chin at Ellen in a gesture to go. "Been a while."

"Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?"

Ellen was already hurrying around the car, keeping it between her and the demon. Never let it be said she lacked in self-preservation skills. Sam waited until Ellen had her hand on the car door to turn around, taking several steps toward Ruby as Ellen got in. The demon was wearing her usual denim and boots, hair caught up in a ponytail that reminded him briefly of Jess. Sometimes he thought it had to be deliberate; other times he just thought that everything reminded him of Jess, a little, and that he wasn't entirely sorry. He shoved the memory away as he placed himself between Ruby and the car.

"Leave everyone else out of this. Any deals we make, any business we've got, it's between you and me. No one else."

"How can you say that?" Ruby was still watching Ellen's Dodge pull out of the parking lot. "We both know it's all about Dean. And there's so many other innocent people at risk if you don't step up."

"Enough!" He couldn't bring himself to actually touch her, but he shot a fist past her face, enough to ruffle her hair. Ruby didn't flinch, but her eyes did finally track their way back to his. "You've already got one string on me," he said, the bitterness of the truth giving his voice the focus he needed. "Don't go trying to yank on any others. You won't like it."

"Aw, Sammy." Ruby dimpled up at him. "Don't you want to know why I'm here?" Sam swallowed, closing his eyes as he looked away. "I heard about a weapon. Something that will allow us to take out more of those demons you let out to play. Maybe something Dean can use, when the time comes. You just have to come with me for a few days." And it might've been the truth, or it might've been a lie, or it might've been both. Sam forced himself to open his eyes and glare at her. "Thaaaat's my boy. Come on. You know I only want what's best for you, don't you?"

"You'll leave my other friends out of this?" Sam bargained. "You won't got near them, won't try to get to me sideways?" His eyes narrowed. "Because maybe I won't take another step until I get that promise out of you. On your name."

Ruby's wide smile made him a little sick, because it promised that no, this weapon hunt wasn't going to be clean or simple, and he'd probably regret it. But he didn't dare turn away. Didn't dare let her suspect that he already had a plan in place, or how far it was from being completed. Better to let her think she could steer him in her direction for now, than to tip her off too soon. "If that's what it takes to get a little cooperation out of you, Sammy, I'll swear to it. Unless deliberately provoked or attacked, I'll swear to leave Bobby Singer, Ellen Harvelle, and that sweet little daughter of hers entirely intact." She shrugged. "Can't speak for everyone in the family, though."

"As long as you're not the one turning your 'family' loose on them, and as long as that includes anyone I designate... fine." Sam stared her down, and wondered for the hundredth time what the demon saw in him, that it was willing to talk to him like a person, and not just try to possess him. "From now until the end of May. And it  
depends on how this pans out." He scowled. "You better not be jerking me around, Ruby."

"Trust me, honey. You'll be glad I offered you this, when we get down to it."

* * *

"_Mom's dead."_

_Jo leaned against the counter of the bar in Jalisco, three shot glasses in front of her already, and set down a fourth as Sam watched, stunned. Dean closed his eyes and cursed under his breath, jaw tightening. "I'm sorry, Jo. How long?"_

_"The first day the goddamn Tick-tocks showed up." Jo reached for the bottle, and slopped more tequila in the glasses, doing two more shots in rapid succession. "They were __**singing.**__ 'One in ten, one in ten.' And then they killed every tenth person in the bar." She looked at the bar top, expression blank. Sam could see fine tremors working their way over her hands. "She wasn't even supposed to be there, she was visiting, trying to talk me into going to her new place for the Fourth." Another shot. "They flew right by me, didn't even seem to see me, just kept cutting at her and cutting at her and laughing..."_

_Her head went down on the bar, not crying yet but fighting back tears. When she lifted her head, Jo rubbed at her eyes, two quick swipes, then took a deep breath. "I want to get those sons of bitches. I heard what you guys are up to. I'm in. Don't try to stop me."_

_Dean's eyes met Sam's over Jo's head, and he raised his eyebrows in inquiry, then shrugged at whatever he saw on Sam's face. "Okay. After you're done throwing up the tequila, we'll give you a run-down of how it works."_

_"You saying I can't hold my liquor, Winchester?"_

_"Nahhh. I mean, compared to Sammy, you're doing great, he'd already be praying to the porcelain god by now."_

_Sam gave his brother a tight smile, then looked toward the entrance, recognizing the person standing there; he froze for a second before getting up from his seat and starting toward the door. "Back in a minute."_

_Dean flicked him a quick glance, then nodded as he grabbed the tequila bottle from Jo. "Leave some for a toast to Ellen, would you?"_

_Sam didn't hear Jo's comeback, already concentrating on Ruby. Ruby who looked quiet, for once, without the gleeful smile, or the smug taunting. She stalked out to the edge of the parking lot, then turned around. "You have to come with me. Now."_

_"Are you nuts?" Sam stared at her a second, then hissed, "Did you plan this? Is this your side's game? 'Cause if it is, I am going to take you bastards apart for this."_

_"No! We've got jack to do with this." Ruby flinched, folding her arms across her chest. In the dim sodium light of the street lamp she looked furious, and -- scared? "This is someone else's game. Which is why you've got to come with me now, Sammy. We can stop this if we have a commander. You just have to sign on, and what's left of the world is yours."_

_"__**Screw**__ that." Sam was laughing, and so angry he felt like his head was going to explode. "You didn't see this coming! You had no fucking clue! Why the hell should I sign on with a bunch of demon losers who couldn't stop one alien invasion?" He loomed over her, resisting the urge to reach out and shake her. "A fourth of the population gone, and all you can think about is yourselves. How many demons got killed by those flying psychos? Why haven't you just gone to the top and signed on with 'the Master'? Offered him a deal?"_

_"Too many." Ruby's lips were set in a hard line. "And he wasn't open to negotiations."_

_"So he told you to go fuck yourselves?" That was funny. That was actually hysterical. Sam chortled, rubbing one hand over his face, then got his breath back. "You know, I hate his guts, but he had the right idea. Go to hell, Ruby."_

_"We could still save Dean. If you're ours we can give him to you, as a present." She didn't move away, but Sam could feel the tension ratchet up a notch. "Just take on your role, Sam. Accept what you can't change. Save the world the only way you can."_

_And abruptly, nothing was funny. "Good-bye, Ruby. Don't ever come back here. I'm not signing on to be the next fascist dictator of the Earth." Sam stepped away. "Get out of my sight before I exorcise you. Now."_

_"That was a mistake, Sam." Ruby shook her head, eyes going black. "But I'll be around if you change your mind."_

_Which snapped what little composure Sam had left into matchsticks. His fist flashed out toward her face, but she wasn't standing there by the time it reached where she'd been. The force of the punch had him spinning in the light of the street lamp, panting for breath._

_He had to go back in the bar and act normal for Dean and Jo. Had to. The world didn't stop for the stupid demons trying to recruit him again. Ellen was dead. There were things he had to say and do, to help out her daughter, get a resistance going, keep them all alive._

_He'd stop crying in a minute._

Sam woke to tears on his face, then raced for the toilet, vomiting up bile and black coffee. Christ. He had the urge to call Ellen, Dean, and Jo, to check and make sure they were still alive and okay.

He resisted the urge to crush the violet memory crystal against the tiles in the bathroom, and concentrated on making himself presentable before Ruby showed up.

* * *

**Interlude: **Cardiff.** Two days after the end of the world.**

Martha eventually stopped giggling, leaning against the Doctor as they watched Jack rush away. "The Face of Boe," she murmured, remembering the sight of that enormous face, wondering if Jack had recognized her. If that had really been Jack? "I wonder..." She stopped speaking, turning over possibilities in her mind.

"Wonder what?"

Martha turned to look up into his face (his own face again, not an old man's, not a shriveled little gnome) and felt a surge of longing again, too strong to lie to herself about. But not so strong she couldn't keep it out of her expression. She was going to have to do something about that. Soon.

"Time travel. And paradoxes." She swung herself away from the rail, and paced over the marble stones in front of the Wales Millennium Centre. "I know how the Master made it work, but... can you ever do that without a machine? Cancel out the past, and the whole thing goes up in a puff of smoke? I mean, look at what almost happened with Shakespeare."

"More like a shriek of dragons," the Doctor said, voice no longer laughing. "There should have been predators in the time stream, ready to gobble at the edges of the singularity he created from the Toclafane's actions. The paradox machine prevented that."

She swallowed hard, thinking of Kree. _The skies are full of diamonds_. "So we can't save them?"

"No." The Doctor gave her a look of infinite compassion, no different from the look he'd given the Master. Almost.

"They just die there, at the end of the universe, die in the dark, killing each other..."

"Yes." His voice was utterly weary for a moment, then he sighed in resignation, reaching for her hand. "All things die, Martha. You're a doctor, you know that."

"But it doesn't have to be like that. Not without any dignity, without any peace at all." She took a breath, wiped at her tears with the heel of her hand, the light off the waterfall sparkling and shattering into fragments. "Does it?"

He didn't answer in words, just pulled her closer into a hug, and rested his chin on top of her head. Martha hung onto him as hard as she could. He wasn't saying no. That had to count for something.

"The trick about time travel," he whispered finally, "is to not know the ending. If you leave in the middle, you can always change it later. Cause and effect stay solid in your personal timeline. Or you leave just as you've finished one chapter of someone's history. And let them sort out the rest on their own." He kissed her hair, and pulled away a little, face solemn. "If they're going to die as humans, and not Toclafane, it's got to be something they manage themselves. We know too much."

Martha nodded, feeling the scrape of that disappointment like the icy wind from the water. And maybe that's how he managed all the time, with friends and companions who kept dying on him and leaving. Leave while they're happy; and they stay happy in your mind forever.

Soon. Very soon. Or it would all go sour, and the time they had before would be spoiled with her own discontent. She had other, better reasons to leave, but that didn't erase this one.

Her mind wandered a bit, and she frowned, thinking. "So... if you were going to save someone, with knowledge of the future-- you couldn't tell them exactly how to do it. But if you just-- gave them a hint, and left? That would be okay?"

The Doctor gave her a hard look. "Why do you ask?" Martha didn't answer, just looked at him steadily. "Right. Well. Yeah. You'd have to be very, very careful. Free will and all. They have to be able to ignore you. No proof of the outcome, or, well. Dragons."

"Dragons," Martha repeated, deadpan. "I just know there's a story there."

"Oh, so many stories..."

They spent the rest of the day just wandering around Cardiff . Every once in a while Martha would finger a piece of paper in her jacket pocket, and calculate the time difference between Cardiff and California. And practice the words to give Sam a choice, and Dean a chance.

* * *

_September, 2007 – Silverthorne, Colorado:_

"Please, please, don't hurt my dad. Please!" The teenage girl begging Sam for mercy reached for his arm, tears running down her face and smearing her make-up.

Sam gritted his teeth behind his ski mask, and glared at Ruby as best he could while struggling with the axe's punitive owner. The headlock he had on the man wasn't going to hold up much longer, and having their 'housebreaking' interrupted by first him, then his daughter? Was not making Sam's night.

"Grab the axe and let's **go**," he whispered hoarsely.

"Which one is it?" Ruby demanded, leaning forward to slap the man across one pudgy cheek.

"Can't you tell?" Sam growled, as the owner started cackling under his breath.

"He's got a protection on it, and on the room, and _which one is it?"_ Ruby asked again, giving the man another quick crack across the face. "Tell us, or Goldilocks gets it."

"What?" Sam gasped, as the teenager started to wail even louder.

"Shut up, you little idiot. Daddy's going down, you don't have to go with him," Ruby snapped.

The man started struggling again, cursing, and muttering, "Mine, all mine, not my Holly, no, you don't get her--"

Ruby pulled out a knife. Probably the same one she'd killed the demons with, the first time Sam met her.

"Enough!" Sam knocked the man's head into the desk, rendering him unconscious, then eased him to the floor. "Holly? Look after your dad."

"What are you **doing**?" Ruby demanded. "Get back here!"

"Follow me or get left behind. Your ride is leaving." Sam was halfway down the hallway by the time the last word was out of his mouth.

Two hours of the silent treatment for Ruby later, Sam slammed the brakes on the rental and nearly fishtailed it into a parking spot at the Hertz, grabbed his bag, and exited the pick-up as quickly as he could.

"Sam. Sam! What did you expect?" Ruby was calling after him. He heard the truck door slam, but didn't turn around. "If you're not willing to get your hands dirty, you don't really want to save your brother. Do you?"

Sam smiled tightly at the rental agent, dropping the key on the counter, then pulling out two hundred dollars in cash. "Keep the change."

If he turned around to answer Ruby's question, he'd kill her, right here in broad daylight in front of witnesses. He put on his sunglasses and pulled out the cell, hitting the number for Bobby, and hoping like hell that he'd be there.

"Sam, okay, I pushed a little too hard—" She tried to catch his arm, and he was suddenly reminded of the daughter of the man who'd had the axe in his possession. The father was dirty, into stuff that was going to take him down his own road to hell, but his daughter? Where was the sense in that?

"Go away, Ruby," he whispered, shaking her off. "Walk away while you still can."

"You have to commit, Sam. You're not going to get what you want without some bloodshed." She stepped back, voice pissed. "Otherwise, you might as well follow up on those empty threats, invoke the God you're trying to avoid dealing with, and get rid of me now."

"You know? I've heard worse ideas," he hissed, then reached under his jacket for the Colt. He didn't point it at her, but made sure she knew he could at any moment. "But maybe hurting you would be enough." He took a breath. "Leave me. Alone. Or I'll let Dean deal with you next time. You know he'd love to."

"Awwww, Sammy." She pouted at him, changing tactics. "You know I didn't mean it. I'll give you a little time to get used to this." She turned and started walking down the street. "But it has to happen sometime."

Bobby picked up the phone then, sparing Sam an answer. "Hey, Sam."

"Hey, Bobby. I'm at the auto rental on 15th. Could use a pick-up. Dean there?" Sam looked around. Ruby had vanished. Again. He could only hope it was for the last time, but not with any expectation of being right.

"Yeah. How'd it go?" Bobby asked, tone guarded.

The sounds of fumbling and cursing at the receiver, and then Dean's voice was snarling down the line. "What did that bitch have you doing?"

"Nothing." Sam slumped down onto a bench on the corner, and tried to fight the pounding in his head. "We didn't do anything. She's gone. You were right. I don't want to talk about it. Can you just get here?"

Silence for a moment, then, "This isn't over, Sammy."

"Yeah it is." He swallowed. "Next time she shows, we exorcise her. I don't want to go down that road."

Because the truth was, without the option of the last-minute save that he and Bobby were already arranging... he might have.

He could see where Ruby had been going with this all along, now. Get him used to killing. Get him used to using his powers. Get him into the mind-set of ends-justifying. A long slippery slope leading into -- what? Signing on as Supreme Commander of demonic forces? What a joke. Like that would save Dean from anything, in the long run. And maybe the memory of her making him the same offers in his dreams, and of turning them down because they were so damn_ empty_ made it simpler. But not easier.

"You are telling me what happened when I get there," Dean warned him. "No arguments."

"I'll start walking if you don't get off the line and pick me up soon," Sam growled back. He was probably going to lose that fight. Right now, he didn't care. "I just..." He closed his eyes. "I don't know if I did the right thing, Dean. I'm just not there yet."

What were a couple lives, compared to Hell?

"On my way."

Dean hung up, and Sam closed the cell, wishing he didn't feel a million years old without being a million years smart.

* * *

**May, 2008 - Budapest**

"Miss Jones? Can I talk to you alone?"

Martha looked up, took a swig of the tea that the refugees had provided her, and sighed. "Sure. Where?"

"Down this hall." The girl was her own age, maybe a little younger, brunette, speaking English with a heavy Hungarian accent. She hugged a huge pea coat around herself, and lead Martha to one of the service hallways of the underground subway system. Water dripped down the walls, and Martha could just make out graffiti that she couldn't understand before they broke into an open platform, no longer being used. Long-ago posters advertised _Les Mis_, waiting for a train that would never arrive, passengers long gone.

All the lights were still on, and Martha could hear the distant sounds of the factories above them. The staircase that lead upward to the street was bare of debris, and the girl (Jalana? She couldn't remember; have to ask, knowing names was important to people) crossed to the steps, and brushed off a step, waiting for Martha to join her. "So, what's this about, then?"

"My people want to make you an offer, Miss Jones." The girl tilted her head, smiling at Martha. "For afterwards. When the Master's gone."

"What kind of an offer? I'm just a med student, when the world's normal." Martha took a sip of her tea, and hugged herself in the chill.

"Is that what you want to be? A doctor? Fixing all the world's problems?"

Martha frowned, brows drawing down as she studied -- Gianna, that was it. The edge of scorn to the question was so incongruous she couldn't make sense of it. "Well, yeah. That's what I've always wanted."

"You're going to be a political figure after this is all over, Martha. Can I call you Martha?" She steamrolled on, not even waiting for Martha's reaction. "Everyone will know your name. Religious figure wouldn't be too strong a term, actually. We think you could use that to help a lot of people."

Uneasy laughter escaped her, and Martha tapped her fingers on her mug. "And who are your people, exactly?"

"People who want what's best for surviving humanity." Gianna was leaning closer now, smiling. "Think about it. You'll be on the_ Valiant_. All that technology. And the bombs... they'll be all ready, for whatever we want to use them for."

Martha stared at her a moment, gobsmacked, and wondered why she hadn't anticipated this. In all of the year that she'd been walking the Earth, though, no one had suggested anything like it. Too scared or too desperate until now, she supposed. Abruptly, she put the tea down and hopped to her feet. "Sorry. Not interested. Don't want to rule the world."

"Do you want to save your brother?"

Martha froze in the middle of the platform, and turned back to look at Gianna. "What?" Another breath, then: "Is that some sort of threat? Because I can tell you, I don't take kindly to them, Gianna."

Gianna held up both hands in surrender, a small, crooked smile on her face. "No, no. You misunderstand. I am offering you a gift. Not offering violence to your family, or the promise of same." She let her hands fall. "But my people stand ready to be your army. We can make this happen, take down the Master. Especially," her voice softened. "Since this plan has no chance of working."

"How can you say that?" Martha took an involuntary step forward, fists clenching, then took a breath. "Look, I know it's asking a lot, to believe in me, in the Doctor, but we can do this, we can depose the Master. You just have to believe."

"And if the Doctor's dead?" Martha closed her eyes, swallowing back acid. Gianna's voice was coaxing. "We are the alternative, little one. The Master will kill him eventually, you know that. He may already be dead. Do you have another plan?"

"Yes." She planned to go back there, give the time vortex manipulator back to Jack, and then he'd kill the Master. What happened to her after that-- she didn't care about, so much. But she hoped she'd get to see her family before the end.

"One that saves everyone you care about?" Gianna shook her head. "No. There is no help coming, you know. The outer satellites of this system are broadcasting a quarantine. An extinction notice is up. Planet Earth is closed, Martha Jones. You will have only one chance. And if that fails..."

"How do you know that?" Martha took another step back. "How can you know that?"

Gianna's eyes went black, from lid to lid, irises swallowed up in darkness. "We know many things, Martha. The results for the galaxy if the Master is allowed to build his new Gallifrey. The fate of your parents, your sister. Your brother, caught in all this madness. You could spare them that."

Alien. "You could have helped us before! You could have stopped this!"

"We are constrained by certain rules, Miss Jones." Gianna-not-Gianna shrugged, blasé and calm. "And one of them is that we can not interfere with species other than humanity on Earth. The other would be-- invitation." She stood up, tilted her head, studying Martha with that endless gaze. "Ask us for our help, and you shall have it. Your family, safe. Anyone else you choose, safe. And you can then turn your efforts toward rebuilding the Earth. And then the galaxy." Her lips quirked. "No reason to waste all those rockets, now that they're built."

"Go to Hell." Martha swallowed, one finger moving to rest on the time vortex manipulator. "We're going to win, the Doctor's going to save us--"

"Don't be foolish, Martha. Hell's what we'll have if the Master wins. Are you really qualified to make that decision for all of humanity?"

"You can't stop the Doctor, can you," Martha realized. "You're not allowed to interfere with other species-- so that means this could work." She took a breath. "Thanks but no thanks."

Leo, I'm sorry. Mum, Dad, Tish, stay alive, just a while longer, I'm almost there.

"You're quite certain?" Gianna looked disappointed, blinked, and her eyes went back to the human appearance they'd had throughout the evening. "You don't see the potential?"

"I see the potential all right. I'd rather be dead."

Gianna sighed. "I wish I could make that come true for you, but you won't let me get close enough now, will you?" Martha stiffened, took another step back, and Gianna smiled. "Ah well." She turned and started to ascend the staircase up to the surface, then stopped half-way, posed and very deliberately thoughtful. "Oh. That reminds me. Dean Winchester sends his regards. You might remember him." She smiled gently. "He died last night. Screaming."

Oh, God. Sam and Dean. That had been last night, the end of the deal. Not an alien, a _demon_. "You filthy cow--"

"I'll be sure and find you, when it's Leo's turn," Gianna called over her shoulder, and continued back up the staircase. "Have a lovely trip, Martha."

Martha stumbled back down the service-way in the dark, feeling her breath catch in what would have been tears if anger hadn't overpowered her grief. Sam. Oh, Sam. She was going to fix this. Had to, now. No second guesses. No back-up plans.

She had to believe that, or she wouldn't be able to keep walking.


	5. Then

_**Then:**_

_Dean had been gone for a month._

_Jo died two weeks ago, that day._

_Only five people had made it back to the hideout under the sand after the last raid. And today was the last day it would matter. At the edges of the Mexican prison camps, Sam laid the final charge, set the timer, and ran._

_10._

Dean should be here for this. He would've loved this part.  
_  
9._

_He ran to the gates, trusting that Bobby would be there with the truck, waiting._

_8._

_The Doctor had still been alive 24 hours ago. Which meant Martha's plan was going forward._

_7._

_"Sam? You there?" Bobby's voice crackled over Sam's head-set.  
_

_6._

_"Check your rear-view, Bobby."_

_5._

_With a last burst of speed, Sam made it to the truck, and slashed his arm downward. "Go!"_

_4._

_He could see the faces of the people, pressed against the fence as they roared by. Scared, and silent._

_3._

_One of the Tick-tocks was starting to descend from its formation far, far above, but it would have bigger problems--_

_2._

_Just about--_

_1._

_Now._

**_BOOM!_**

_The entire front fence went up, along with the guard shack and the towers at every end. The fencing was blown out, a hundred yards in every direction. For a moment, the prisoners remained frozen, then there was a rush forward._

_Sam picked up the megaphone._

_"PEOPLE! IT'S NOW!" He took a breath. "REMEMBER THE WORD. COME ON. THINK IT. DOCTOR. DOCTOR. DOCTOR."_

_Martha, this better work._

_A ragged chant started._

_"...Doctor. Doctor. Doctor..."_

_The Toclafane was shooting at the ground now, trying to stop the truck. Bobby hit the gas, and the truck rushed across the line of people, Sam hanging onto the tailgate, still shouting through the megaphone._

_"DOCTOR! DOCTOR!"_

_The crowd's voice strengthened, and Sam saw a few people raising their fists to the sky in defiance. "DOCTOR. DOCTOR. DOCTOR! DOCTOR!"_

_The truck swerved to avoid a blast, and Sam leaned forward to rap on the window. "Stop, Bobby! Doesn't matter now!"_

_"DOCTOR! DOCTOR! DOCTOR!"_

_A wind rose, seemingly from everywhere at once._

_"DOCTOR! DOCTOR! DOCTOR!"_

_The noise felt like it could rattle his bones. Sam flinched back as another blast hit the truck, only a few feet away, and scrambled, then fell out of the flatbed._

_Doctor. Doctor. Doctor._

_Martha, God, let this work._

_Another blast, catching him in the leg. The pain was excruciating, the worst parts of a burn and a gunshot in one, and Sam screamed, and then turned it into another word. "Doctor..."_

_And then--_

_Another blast, and he knew he was dead before it hit, except it went _through_ him without touching him, and the Tick-tock in front of him wavered like breeze across water, dissolving, thinning--_

_More screams around him as people tried to keep their balance, but they were being swept away, all directions at once, up, down, sideways, and the ground went away, and the next time he looked the prison camp was gone. Just sandy dunes._

_The rockets disappeared, the light flickered, night, day, night, and--_

_Keep your promise, Martha, please, please, you already did this much--_

_Dean. Hang on._

_I'm coming back_.

And it all faded to black.

* * *

Sam woke up gasping for air, with Dean shaking him awake. "Dude! C'mon, Sam. Wake the fuck up." 

Sam opened his eyes, staring around the motel room they'd taken a week before, and sagged back to the pillows. "Christ." Another breath, and he closed his eyes again, swallowed, and then grabbed Dean's hand, feeling it warm and alive in his. "You died. I had to-- you walked out into the desert and all I found was a pool of blood and _you don't get to ditch me _god_damnit_--"

"Sammy, Sammy, Sam-- Jesus, calm down. I'm not ditching you! Okay? Just breathe. Breathe. Thaaat's it. I'm still here. We got a month." Dean's fingers were clenched in his, green eyes studying him with the sanity-doubting look that Dean deserved more than Sam did. "Almost."

"Almost," Sam whispered, loosening his grip. He reached under the pillow for the violet stone he'd been hanging onto for months, and frowned. "Crap."

A long fracture split the rock, a flaw that bent the light.

Was that it? The last clue?

Martha. Martha Jones. He couldn't even bring her face to mind, just her voice, saying, "July. 2007. You'll hear from me." Tired but kind and she'd done..._ something. _Something amazing.

Sam looked up from the rock to Dean, who was studying it speculatively. "Didn't we swipe that from Mama Amelie's grave six months ago? And wasn't Bela pissed that we couldn't find it?"

"Yeah." Sam put it into Dean's hands. "I had another use for it."

Dean smirked, turning the stone over and over in his fingers. "You gonna tell me about it?"

"After." Sam swallowed. "Unless you're not gonna fight me when the bill comes due."

Dean fell silent, eyes on the amethyst. "I don't want to die," he said softly. "But I don't want you to die."

"It's a lot more than dying, Dean."

His brother hunched over the stone, face impassive. "I'm sorry, you know. This year... it's been a bad year." Dean searching for words was never a natural event. Usually they flew thick and fast, rat-a-tat, or flowed out to fill all available space. Sam set his jaw, looking away, trying to make it easier on him. "I'd probably do it again. Stupid like that." He laughed, not entirely humorlessly. "But maybe... maybe I'd do it smarter, better. Not make this so rough on you..."

"Dean. Shut up." Sam closed his hand over Dean's holding the crystal, waited until Dean looked at him, then smiled. As well as he could. "I know, man. I know." He took a breath. "And after-- I am so beating you down for this whole mess. Just-- I get it, okay?"

"Okay," Dean whispered.

"Just don't try to stop me. Don't fight me when I make my play?"

Dean shook his head, hand tightening on Sam's. "I can't help, even by going along with it, Sam, or you die, and that's the only thing I'm getting out of this--"

"I got it covered." Sam sighed. "Right. Too much to ask."

And now he was going to have to sneak up on Dean.

Oh well. It wasn't like the whole thing wasn't already freakin' impossible. Might as well just add Dean's mythic stubbornness into the mix, right?

He really wished he'd told Martha Jones-- whoever she was-- how to get around Dean, while he was planning on facing down Hell.

* * *

**June, 2008. **_And June, 2008:_

_"Time is reversing! Hang on!"_

_Martha held onto the Doctor's hands, laughing, falling down, spinning and almost sick with vertigo but elated, happy, thrilled that it was all fixed now, all better. The Master was yelling in the background, but he was defeated now and knew it. It was almost over-- _

_Somehow, she thought she saw the eyes of one of the soldiers go black as tar for a moment, watching from the upper deck._

_But when the _Valiant_ stopped moving back through time, he was gone._

Martha woke up, but kept her eyes shut, listening to orient herself. The tap of fingers on a keyboard. Recycled air, blowing through an open hallway. A gentle bubbling of a water tank; drawn-out vowels down the hall-- Ianto. And a tiny creaking caw, skittering claws, flapping wings... Myfanwy.

Torchwood.

Martha reached out and pulled the thermal blanket draped over her up to her chin. Then rubbed at her eyes, and mumbled, "What time is it?"

"Seven." She craned her head back, looking at Jack upside-down above her. "In the evening. You crashed for fourteen hours."

"God. I should go home." Martha didn't move, just blinked at Jack. "Ev'ryone else gone? 'Cept you. And Ianto. And Myfanwy?" She yawned heavily, and murmured, "But you lot never leave, do you."

"Nope." Jack swung around the edge of the couch to lean against the back, then hunkered down, his head on his crossed arms. "You okay?"

"Mm. Mm-hmm." Martha nodded, but she could feel the frown on her face, the one that hadn't left even after they'd solved last night's crisis. "Good, really. Just... thinking." She met Jack's eyes, and felt her own fill up. "Don't know why. Just feeling down, thinking about last year. S'all."

"Ah." Jack didn't say anything else, for which Martha was grateful, just reached out to rub a circle on her temple with his thumb. She leaned into it, feeling safe and cared for.

"Do you believe in demons, Jack?" she asked, her eyes still closed, after several minutes of having her head rubbed. Really, he should quit Torchwood and set up a massage salon. He could start his own religion that way. Maybe he would sometime in the future; she'd have to tell him that. "Like in Hell. Or, Satan. Or whatever."

"What brought this on?" Jack murmured in bemusement. "You're not going there."

"'Course not." She sighed, not sure what she believed, whether it was in heaven, or evolution, or just some kind of floaty afterlife. She'd decided she did believe in God during that last year, but she couldn't say more than that. "I knew this bloke..."

Tears welled up for no reason. Stupid post-traumatic post-apocalyptic dreams.

"Hey, hey. Shhhh. None of that." Jack thumbed her tears away, brushing a finger across the tip of her nose. "What's going on?"

Martha curled closer to the back of the couch, and reached up to catch Jack's hand. "I kept a promise to this man I met last year, while I was traveling. Just a phone call to pass on a message, last year. After we got back." Jack nodded, blue eyes somber and assessing. She probably looked like some weepy lunatic. Thank God Jack knew her well enough not to take this at face value. "To help save his brother. And I just wanted-- I wanted to know how it came out. After."

She swallowed. "It wasn't really cheating with knowledge of the future. More just, a present that didn't happen?" Jack laced his fingers with hers, and she sighed. "I tried to call. It was supposed to be finished yesterday and after all that mess, I thought, at least I can know Dean's okay, that Sam got his wish. We couldn't save everyone last night--" Not nearly enough, not half enough. "--and I wanted to know someone got a good ending." She held up her cellphone, and flipped it open.

The screen showed the last text message. _Number no longer in service_.

"Why do we keep trying to save people, Jack?" She stared at the message. "When we never know how it comes out. Don't even get to know if we win."

Jack closed the phone gently, and leaned over to kiss Martha's forehead. "So we can sleep at night. Some of the time," he whispered. "C'mon. I'll drive you home."

Martha staggered to her feet, and let him guide her outside into the Cardiff twilight.

Somewhere on the other side of the planet, Sam was either rejoicing or mourning. She just wished she knew which.


	6. Now

_Now_:

Dean came to with an abrupt curse, clutching his head, three minutes after Sam sealed the door. He waited until Dean sat up before lighting the last candle in the setting of the Seal. "Welcome back. How do you feel?"

"Like shit. Dude, what happened…" Dean's voice trailed off as he looked around, eyes widening in comical disbelief. "What the hell is this?"

"Exactly." Sam looked around the small room, no bigger than a storage shed, and cocked an eyebrow at the ceiling and door. "Took me most of the year. Bobby and Ellen did a lot of the work, and a couple subcontractors. I think it turned out well, though."

Every single brick was inlaid with the Seal of Solomon, which was also inscribed on the ceiling and the floor. As well as the clay sealing the door shut.

"Sammy. Tell me that's not blood." Dean had staggered to his feet, and was now staring at the door and the small bowl in the center of the floor's Seal. "And hey, you drugged me! Not cool! Not cool at all!"

"You weren't going to cooperate, you can't be held accountable if I doped you, and yeah, it is blood. Mine." Sam took a breath. "It's in every brick of this place. I donated, man, I don't know. Maybe six pints or so over the year… stamped it into the bricks, built this place and now we're sealed in until this is finished. Nothing will get in and take our bodies while we're in here." He checked his watch, mostly to avoid Dean's eyes. "I know you were hearing the hounds before. I could see you looking around for them."

"You're not going to keep me safe from them by putting me inside a seal. We gotta walk out of it sometime. And I don't think Hell's gonna be happy if they have to burn this place before they take me away." Dean's jaw was starting to set, and Sam felt his own clench in response. "I'm getting outta here, Sam."

"No. If you're going to Hell, you're not going alone. Every defendant gets representation."

"Oh, no way—"

"—and I'm your lawyer, whether you want it or not." Sam took a breath, and began to recite in Latin. "//_By the contract agreed to, I adjure the lords of Hell, to appear and negotiate with the souls standing here in a time outside of time_—"//

"Sam! No! I'm not gonna let this happen!" Dean raised a boot to kick over the candles, and Sam grabbed him by the wrist, yanking him into the Seal.

"//-_-or rescind all claim. Now!_ //"

All of the candles went out at once. Gravity disappeared. So did the oxygen.

Sound was still there, a siren wailing of tornado proportions, and for a second Sam felt despair: he'd completely screwed it up, left them without options and now they were screwed forever and ever and—

"Welcome."

Oxygen and gravity both reasserted themselves with a _slam_ that left Sam gasping, and clutching at his sanity and nerve. Dean's hand tightened in his, and that drove the last of his despair away in a rush. This had to work. It was the only possibility left.

They were standing on a gray and infinite plain. Actually, it looked like Kansas. Only the Kansas from the _Wizard of Oz_, all color and life leached out, storm clouds hovering on the horizon, and crows watching from a nearby split-rail fence. There was light here, but it was a diffuse and directionless light, creating no shadows, and no warmth. Sam could hear his heartbeat, too loud, irregular, thud thud-thud-thud, thud thud.

An instant later, he recognized the drums of the Master, and swallowed back bile at the memory. _Your lord and master is watching from on high-- playing Track 3!_ Dean shivered, and hunched his shoulders, expression going stoic and detached. He didn't jerk his hand out of Sam's grip, yet he still felt Dean move away without taking a step.

Sam blinked, and tried to focus on the—being, in front of them. Vaguely human. Vaguely man-shaped. But the face wouldn't hold features any better than the landscape; impersonal and cold, with the angles fading into each other as the head tilted in what might have been consideration.

"Very few ever seek mercy from Hell by appearing early for the fulfillment of the contract's terms," the being said. Its voice sounded like Pastor Jim; kind, and caring. For a second, Pastor Jim's face was there, giving Dean and Sam a disappointed look. "They have more sense. What are you trying to accomplish, Sam?"

"We want to appeal the contract." Sam gulped, and jerked his chin up to look up to the demon now, standing taller than either of them, wearing Dad's face, eyes flickering like smoke. "It wasn't binding. And you've broken the terms."

"Sam, don't," Dean whispered, closing his eyes, turning his face to the demon. "Don't listen to him. He's not part of this, he doesn't speak for me—"

"If you reject his claim, then our business is concluded," the thing said in Dad's voice, condemning from on high.

That was a tactical mistake. "You piece of shit, you brought me back to life without asking me if I wanted to go! I am part of this whether he accepts me as his representative or not." Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Dean flinch. "You tricked him. You brought me back just to get a grip on Dean's soul, and you were counting on a year of desperation to give you a full claim on it. You don't have one. You _don't_." Sam tightened his grip on Dean. "My brother is a good man. He didn't do a single thing this year that he could be damned for on his own. Or in his life. Faust v. Mephistopheles. Daniel Webster vs. Satan. One deal does not damnation make."

"Nevertheless, that _was_ the deal." The being looked like Bela now, smiling at Dean, who regarded her image with wary loathing, and an ache that Sam was sure had never been there before. "Dean? Do you want Sam to die?"

"No."

"Are you satisfied with the outcome of the deal?" the demon coaxed. The crows on the fence shifted, feathers rustling with the sound of knives being sharpened, in time with the drumbeat that was making Sam's head hurt. "Or do you want something else?"

"Yes. And no." Dean winced suddenly, and Sam was horrified to see blood seeping out of one eye. In the bleak nightmarescape, the trail of red was sickeningly bright. "I don't want—"

"You don't get to bargain for me, Dean." Sam clenched his fingers around Dean's wrist tight enough to cut off circulation. "You said you'd do it better. That means letting me die, someday. I don't want to live forever. I sure don't want to live if the price is you in Hell. You can't do this to me."

God damn his voice for almost breaking. The second he thought that, he wildly wondered if God could even hear them where they were.

Time to hit the final argument. "Double jeopardy. He can't go to Hell twice." Sam's voice strengthened. "And he already went once, and you returned him. He already fulfilled the freakin' contract."

The entire landscape shifted, whitened, enlarged… into a desert rimed with ice, the temperature dropping into frostbite territory. Sand shifted, clouds melted and reappeared, and the bleak lifelessness of the place shot more fear through Sam's veins. The demon's form solidified into the one last worn by Azazel, eyes livid gold. Sam didn't think it was Azazel, but seeing that bastard's face again at least made Dean stiffen his spine, his lips drawing back in a snarl as the demon spoke to them. "Special circumstances."

"Special—" Dean turned to look at Sam, really **look **at him, for the first time since they arrived. Then he looked around them, eyes widening, despair dropping away in surprise and outrage. Maybe it was his imagination, but Dean's face seemed to gain more color. "No. I was out! You let me out!"

_Yes!_

"You cheating double-crossing scumwads, I was here! And you let me go!"

"Dean." Insistent and insinuating now, the demon stepped closer. "Dean, do you want Sam to die?"

"You had your shot," Sam said, grinning fiercely. "And someone gave Dean parole. Time or God or whoever. He's not yours any more."

"Shut up, Sammy." The demon's hiss was Dean's voice, only magnified and intensified a thousand times, and for a second, the face was Dean's too. "You have no power here."

"And you have no power over me. Or him." Sam set his jaw. "It happened. That whole year happened. Dean remembers it now. You let him go. You don't get him twice. That wasn't just one month, that was one month in** Hell**, so—"

Dean interrupted, face twisted into a mask of rage. "I remember being here. And I remember knowing no one could come for me, and then getting out and forgetting a split-second later and that is _it_, I'm through, contract _over_."

The world exploded into blackness again, screams of a thousand crows, drums reverberating through skin down to bone, and then a howl of rage. "_Surrender to us! You have no choice!"_

And in the middle of it, Dean roared, "You heard my lawyer! It's over! I held up my end of the deal! You hold up yours!"

Sam tasted blood at the back of his throat, right before his last grip on awareness was snuffed out.

* * *

"…ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, fucking ow, ow, ow, ow…" 

"Ow." Sam opened his eyes. Every molecule in his body weighed ten thousand pounds. His eyelids were boulders. Staring up at the Seal of Solomon on the ceiling was too much work, so he closed his eyes again. "Ow."

"Sam?"

"Mmmm. Yeah."

A long pause. "Did we just win?"

"Think so."

Another long pause. "Oh, shit."

The sound of Dean vomiting cut through Sam's misery long enough for him to mutter, "You okay?"

It took a while, but he could hear Dean finally start breathing again, and a muttered, "I remember."

The ice pick punching a hole through Sam's brain didn't let him consider whether the next question was wise. "Remember… what?"

"All of it." Dean's voice was a ragged, thin grumble. "Apocalyptic year from… yeah, all the Tick-tocks and people dying and.. Hell." Sam opened his eyes, and tried to sit up, settling for rolling over to look at his brother. Dean was pushed up against the wall, tears running down his face. "Felt like forever." He laughed, a little hysterically. "Then it was over. And time started over, and …" He choked, took a breath. "Why did that work?"

"Hell only has the power you give it." Sam managed to raise himself to his elbows, and stare owlishly at his brother. "You didn't give it anything to work with, really, this year. Only thing holding you was the contract, and you fulfilled it." He gave up trying to remain upright, and faceplanted into the floor. "'M go sleep."

There was a lot he wanted to tell Dean, and ask him, and to point out that Dean had saved himself, by what he'd done all year, but it was going to have to wait until he was done being unconscious.

He managed to send a tiny prayer up to Heaven, thanksgiving and a feeling of gratitude and joy and disbelief, before he lost consciousness.


	7. After

_After_:

It isn't actually possible to drive from Canada to England. It's just much easier to get through customs coming from Nova Scotia than it is from New York.

After Dean and Sam crawled out of the containment building, and Bobby checked them both for possession as a matter of reflex ("I don't care how many Seals you had on the walls, Sam, I was always gonna make sure.") the combination of relief and disbelief left them in need of some down time. Plus, Agent Hendricks had been checking up on them a little more carefully over the last month, so a road trip to the Great White North seemed called for.

Occasionally Sam would look at Dean in the driver's seat and wonder if the whole thing had been just another dream; or if he hadn't woken up yet from some long-ass hallucination as the Tick-tocks cut him to pieces. Dean waking up from nightmares every night served to dispel that possibility pretty quickly.

He wouldn't talk about Hell. Sam tried to get his brother to tell him about it, but Dean's absolute silence defeated him after only couple tries. He hoped that would change later. Instead, they spent a lot of time comparing memories of the Year That Wasn't, trying to figure exactly what happened, filling in the gaps for each other. Sam's memories were patchier; Dean had a full eleven months of being part of some underground resistance, but he wasn't there for a couple crucial conversations Sam had, or for the final month.

"I still can't believe the entire British population was that stupid. Or that it's still not public. His wife shot him, and they still haven't explained it. Freakin' tea-drinkers."

"The British? C'mon, Dean, it was the whole world." Sam closed his eyes, enjoying the sun through the car's windshield. "Everyone who should've asked questions didn't, and he had nearly everyone intimidated into complying with his agenda. You can't blame the British for what happened."

"I can if I want to."

"Then you have to give credit where it's due, too." Sam slid a glance sideways, and saw Dean's mouth tighten as he beat out the bass line to _Runaway_ on the steering wheel. "We didn't save the world. Someone else did."

"Yeah." Dean's eyes stayed resolutely on the road in front of him. "I told her not to call you, you know. If the world changed."

"You asshole. Why?"

Dean shrugged, gave a minute shake of his head. "Dunno. Thought it was too much, she had so many people grabbing at her, and it was still so far down the line..." He pursed his lips. "Didn't want anyone else sucked into our mess, maybe. It made sense at the time."

"You can apologize for that, too." Sam squinted into the horizon, then grinned. "Hey. You owe me a beer. Remember?"

Dean rolled his eyes, then smirked. "I'll buy both of you beers." He slid the rental into a parking space, and looked around. "Looks like we're here."

'Here' being the Wales Millennium Centre. Martha Jones, as it turned out, had a MySpace page. Three weeks of wondering how to find her, and Sam finally did an internet search that turned up a 25-year-old doctor who moonlighted in Wales sometimes, and talked about having lunch on the plaza in Cardiff when she was there.

Sam figured they'd take a shot at running into her here before stalking her at home. Some things had to be said in person, though.

"You see her?" Dean asked as he slid on a pair of shades, looking around the open mall and checking out two women heading into a local pizza place.

"No, but..." Sam looked around, then pointed out. "Look. Tourist bureau. We can ask where the local clinics are, and figure out where she's working from there."

"Cool."

* * *

"Tourist alert." Tosh was typing away on her computer, and checking the CCTV feed, then paused to add, "Dishy ones, too. Can I switch jobs with Ianto some morning?" 

"You'd never let them leave," Jack said, then leaned over her shoulder. "Although Ianto looks like he's enjoying himself."

"...sorry, no, the nearest Clinic is three miles away. St. Helena's. Are you in need of medical assistance?" Ianto was asking, sounding official and officious.

"We were looking for a friend of ours, Martha Jones? She hangs out on the plaza at lunch time when she's in town, and she's supposed to be here this week," responded an American voice, and Martha froze in her examination of the latest set of biological samples. "I don't suppose she comes in here, though. She's a doctor?"

"Sorry, can't say as I know her--"

Ianto hadn't even finished speaking before Martha was rushing to put her samples away, and grabbing her purse before running for the lift to the surface.

"Martha!"

"Got to go! Old friends in town! They're taking me out for a drink!" Martha called over her shoulder to Jack as she hit the controls for the lift.

The entrance to the mall opened up above her, and it was all she could do to keep from hauling herself up on the edges to get on the surface faster.

"Dude, this is a waste of time. I say we check out the clinics, then put out an ad in the newspaper," said a familiar voice to her left.

"Maybe. Let's give it another hour, though, maybe she's eating lunch late..." Sam Winchester turned, and stared at her. Belatedly, Martha remembered the perception filter. Except, wait. He was looking right at her...

"Martha?"

"Sammy, who're you-- Hell-o." Dean took a step back to keep from being bowled over as Martha ploughed into Sam, laughing and crying.

"Martha!" Sam was laughing too, and spinning her around. She'd forgotten how absolutely huge he was, got dizzy with vertigo as he spun her, arms tight around her as he whispered, "Thank you. Thanks so much."

When he finally put her down Martha realized she'd been babbling the entire time.

"You did it you did it_ it worked _oh my god, I tried to call again and your phone was out of service..." She paused in her glee to take a breath. "How did you find me? How did you remember?"

"Long, long, long story," Dean said, smiling just like she remembered. Well, maybe not **just** like. Maybe a little more serious, but--

And then he was hugging her too, and giving her one smasher of a kiss. Lots of attention to detail. Total absorption. Some part of her brain retained enough presence of mind to hand Sam her purse, and then return her full focus on Dean's lips, and all the relief she felt. Plus, damnit, hand-kissing was all very well, but she'd always wondered.

"I owe you a beer." Dean broke the kiss, still beaming at her.

"We can explain at the pub," Sam added, dropping one arm over her shoulders. "While you tell us how you've been this year."

Martha hugged his side and grabbed Dean's hand, swinging it. "Goes both ways, boys. Lead on, you're buying."

_Fin _

* * *

_ Author's Notes: _

First, to misquote Douglas Adams, timelines are an illusion. Multiple timelines, dreamscapes, and memories? Doubly so. If this story doesn't look like events should match up between Season 3 _Doctor Who_ and Season 3 _Supernatural,_ it's probably not your imagination, since British and American TV are on different cycles. If you're confused, drop me a line in the review section, and I'll explain anything that's bewildering you. Second, any mistakes made are solely my own, whether in British-izing the speech of Martha or details of either show. Last, thanks to all those who commented along the way.


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